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Monday, January 18, 2016

A Winter's Ball

"Aristocrats gathering around Emperor Franz Joseph at a ball in the Hofburg Imperial Palace, painting by Wilhelm Gause (1900)." Image from Wikimedia Commons, in the public domain. It is, as is to be expected, a winter's ball.

Some of you may remember me workingon anovelcalledTheOmniscence. Alas, all good things must come to an end, and I regret to inform you all that I have laid Omni to rest—at least Omni in its current form. But I've got a new project that I'm very excited to share with you. Welcome to Kevarya.Cousins Masha and Arkady are children of war. Both their fathers died in the aftermath of a brutal contest for the throne; both their mothers wrested power from the grip of the patriarchy and paid the price. Both cousins were princesses, but are no longer—Masha because her parents' reign was annulled, Arkady because he is transgender—and both live in exile, be it in a faraway nation or the mysterious Mountains of Old. Both know that the Woman King of Kevarya is not long for this world. And both are headed toward the City of the Crown, intent on claiming the kingdom for themselves.Pitted against each other by rival government factions, Arkady and Masha begin unraveling the most well-kept secrets of the Kevaryese court as they search for ways to take each other down. Gender, race, and sexuality are no longer facets of their identities, but weaknesses to be hidden, lest they be exploited. No one and nothing is safe. But Kevarya's secrets run deeper than either of them could imagine—and the very crown they're fighting for has a dangerous power that could prove to be their undoing.Trigger warnings: deliberate misgendering, transphobic and homophobic comments, and incorrect assumption of child abuse.

A Winter's Ball

The
ballroom glittered with light. Though the windows that would have
flooded the room in sunshine just a few hours ago now brought in
nothing but the dull gray of early evening, each of the five crystal
chandeliers hanging from the ceiling scattered the light from its few
circles of candles all across the room. The gilded embroidery on a
lady's dress caught this light and cast it back out, where it
glistened on an earring or a cufflink, and so on, until illumination
surrounded the guests from all sides, like the echoes of a voice in a
whispering gallery. Once Masha's eyes adjusted to this brightness,
she watched in fascination as men and women twirled about to a
lilting waltz. The trains on Kevaryese dresses were much longer than
Masha was accustomed to, but the dancers seemed to have incorporated
that into their movements without thinking. Skirts spun in time with
their wearers, like they were extensions of the women's bodies, never
impeding movement or inconveniencing nearby couples, who had their
own skirts to deal with. Masha looked down at her own dress. The ruby
swath of silk had an elegant drape to it, rather than the hoop skirt
that was the fashion in Galara nowadays, but lacked the trains and
long sleeves of the Kevaryese dresses. Masha laughed softly to
herself. She would stand out from the crowd—but then again, she
always did.

She
made her way over to the fountain of sparkling wine on a nearby table
and reached for a glass. A larger hand met hers. Masha stopped and
looked up to see a man just old enough to be her father, with rough
black hair pleated into a braid and scruff of the same color around
his mouth. She had thought his skin a tawny beige when she had just
seen his hand, but the deep tones of his suit jacket washed out his
complexion, so that he looked paler—and less foreign—to the
casual observer. He took two glasses, filled them, and handed one to
Masha with a sly smile. Was he flirting
with her? At his
age? No, she decided. He looked more like someone who knew a secret
and was looking for someone to share it with.

He
had come to the right woman.

“How
are you enjoying the ball, milady?” he asked, then took a sip of
his drink. He shook his head a little and set the glass down.

She
raised an eyebrow. “Wine not to your liking?”

“Too
many bubbles, too little alcohol.” He appraised Masha's face.
Something in his thoughts seemed to shift. “Haven't seen you here
before.”

“I
just arrived today,” she said.

“From
where?”

“Galara.”

“Ah.”
His smile began to fade. He must have fought in the war—and clearly
it hadn't given him a very favorable opinion of her country. That
much she had come to accept, at least amongst the Kevaryese. “Where
in Galara, exactly?” he asked. “North, south..?”

Should
she try and conceal her origins? No, what would be the point? He'd
only hold it against her when the question of her name inevitably
arose. “North,” she said. This seemed to make him relax a little,
though the reassuring effect it had on him was immediately undone by
her next two words: “Blackwater Province.”

The
man furrowed his brow as he scanned her face again. “You're the Traitor Prince’s
daughter,” he said. His lips were pressed into a thin line.

Masha
set her glass on the table next to his and extended her gloved hand.
“Lady Marye Blackwater, though to most, I'm simply Masha.”

“A
pleasure, I'm sure.” He bowed to kiss her hand, then looked back up
at her with the confident expression of a man who knew he had just as
notable a name. “Sir Sebastian Antonyve, at your service.”

“The
archer?”

“Finest
archer this side of the ocean.” The smile of a secret-keeper
returned to Sebastian's face. “On both sides, I'd wager, if the
Southern Lands ever allowed a contest.”

Masha
chuckled.
“I think they’d be more likely to have your head.”

“Oh,
of course. Hell, even if I managed to beat
them they’d probably have my head as punishment.”

What
Masha Blackwater didn’t say: “Hell”
is a curious expression to use, given that the Kevaryese don’t
believe in hell.
Sir Sebastian Antonyve, where are you
really from?

What
Masha Blackwater did say: “Do
you hold many contests here?”

“How
else are soldiers supposed to keep their skills sharp without a war
on?” Sebastian grinned. “You should join us sometime. Do you
shoot?”

“Oh,
no, not at all,” said Masha, taken aback despite herself. “I was
never taught any weaponry. Though I do have my mother’s sword.”

The
man bristled at the mention of her mother. Stupid,
stupid, stupid, Masha
thought—she had just gotten him to let his guard down, and now the
walls were back up again. She allowed the shame to show on her face
and added, “I was still a child when she died. I didn’t know what
she had done, what my father had done-”

“It’s
all right,” said Sebastian. He looked up at her with sympathetic
eyes. “Children shouldn’t have to suffer for the mistakes of
their parents.”

Masha
blinked. The look in the archer’s eyes wasn’t just sympathetic,
it was empathetic.
He had once felt what she was feeling. The
mistakes of
their parents, he had said, not the sins.
What mistakes had he made during the war? Or did he think himself the
child in this scenario?

Sebastian
was looking away from her now. She followed his gaze and saw King
Mathylde and Lord Grigory enter, followed by a sullen-looking young
man who, going by his eyes and complexion, was at least part Yenoui.
Perhaps he was related to the Princess Arkadya, whose father had been
from Yenoui. “Do you know who that is?” she asked.

“I
do.” Sebastian chuckled a little. “You'd know the name instantly
if I said it.”

Masha
wanted for him to continue, but he didn't. He had that look on his
face again—that sidelong smile that promised secret knowledge for
the worthy. He was taunting her with it.

She
looked at the man—no, boy—again.
His hair was cropped short, like that of a soldier. He wore a brown
shirt and jacket embroidered with gold thread—wealthy—and
boots that went up to the knees of his breeches. The middle and
forefingers of his right hand were calloused, but his left hand
showed no blemishes. He was an archer, then, whose right hand notched
arrows and drew aim, while his left only had to hold the bow steady.
An archer, like Sebastian—no doubt that was how they knew each
other, and that was the key to solving the puzzle.

“He
was raised at court, then, to have to leave it.” Masha's thoughts
returned to the King's Yenoui husband, dead for nearly twenty years.
He had been an archer, too, as the Longbow Guard's commanding officer
during the war. Masha had seen him in a portrait once. She now
compared her memory of that portrait to the face of the boy before
her. They had the same hair color, skin color, eye color, eye
shape—but this boy's nose was more prominent than Ionai's. It
jutted out in a perfectly straight line before pulling back in at the
tip.

Just
like Masha's father's nose had been, and King Mathylde's was. This
boy had a fe Normonne nose.

Other
resemblances soon showed themselves. The shape of the boy's face was
round like the King's. His hair, though certainly thick, was fine
rather than coarse in texture, and his legs were quite long in
proportion to his small body, a fe Normonne trait that Masha shared
with him.

She
had three theories as to his identity. The first theory: he was a
bastard child of Mathylde and one of her late husband's relatives.
The second, a long shot: Princess Arkadya had a twin brother, hidden
at birth to prevent another succession war, but recently something
had happened—the Princess's ill health? Masha's own arrival?—that
had forced Mathylde to acknowledge his existence. The third theory
was that this boy was
Princess Arkadya, in disguise for some as-of-yet undisclosed reason.
Masha liked this theory best, as it was the only one that explained
why Masha would recognize the youth's name as soon as she heard it.
She also knew that if the second, not the third, theory was true, she
would have little chance at doing what she came here to do.

A
jolt of fear passed through her, but she forced herself to laugh a
little. Even if nothing was amusing, it made her feel in control.

Beside
her, Sebastian let out a chuckle. “You see it?”

“Of
course,” she said coolly. “Though the conclusion I've come to
raises far more questions than it answers. Why is the Princess
disguised?”

Sebastian
grinned. Masha had guessed right. “She's not disguised, it's her
preference,” he said. “It started when she was fourteen. No one,
especially not Lord Grigory, was overjoyed at the prospect.”

“You
said she left court. Officially, it was announced that the Princess
had fallen ill and had been sent to the countryside to recover. What
was the real reason? Where did she go?”

“To
the countryside, to recover,” Sebastian said with a shrug. “She'd
had some injuries that needed to be tended to.”

“Injuries?”
Masha held herself very still to keep from shivering. King
Mathylde wouldn't hurt her child, she
told herself.
Lord Grigory wouldn't hurt the heir to the throne, would he?

Sebastian
turned to look directly at her. His grin faded slightly as he
registered the change in her demeanor. “Call her Arkady,” he
said, more quietly. “Pretend she's a boy. She'll be grateful for
the kindness.” He ran a hand through his hair, then glanced over
Masha's shoulder. “Grigory's headed this way. If he asks, I told
you nothing about the Princess,” he said through his teeth.

“Duly
noted,” Masha said, raising her eyebrow ever so slightly. She made
a mental note of the fact that Sebastian had called the Highest
Adviser by just his first name, then then smoothly stepped aside to
accommodate the approaching man. “Uncle Grigory, hello! Sir
Sebastian was just telling me of all the tournaments he's won, it's
all so thrilling.
Don’t you just love this ball?”

Grigory
gave a small nod in her direction. “I’ve seen too many a winter's
ball to be thrilled at each new one, but I must agree that this
evening is indeed quite pleasant.” A smile tugged at the corner of
his lips as he turned to the other man. “Sebastian. Good to see you
well.”

“And
I, you.”

The
first-name privilege was mutual, then. Masha smiled. Lord Grigory's
inclinations
being as they were, it was entirely possible that the two men were
more than just friends. She'd investigate further, but not at the
moment. She had learned enough secrets for one day.

“Masha,
would you care for a dance?” asked Lord Grigory. His eyes did not
leave Sebastian.

“Certainly,
uncle.” She took his hand, then glanced back at the archer, who
shrugged at her. Masha allowed herself a small chuckle before turning
her attention to Grigory. “He seems nice.”

“Yes,”
said Grigory, closing his eyes for a moment. “He is.”

“Did
you know each other during the war?”

The
old man's eyes snapped open. He looked at her with an expression that
wasn't quite a glare, but was certainly meant to express disapproval.
“Why do you bring that up?”

“It's
clear that that what you really
wanted to talk about,” said Masha, “I figured I would save you
the trouble.”

He
eyed her cautiously, then sighed. “Yes, the war was how we met. He
was second-in-command under Ionai, there were a lot of strategy
meetings.” After a moment, almost as an afterthought—though it
had clearly been gnawing on his mind for some time—he asked, “How
much do you know about your mother’s actions in the war?”

“She
kept meticulous notes on strategy,” Masha said, keeping her gaze
level, “as well as secrets she held over her spies, most of whom
your government rooted out and executed after your victory.”

“Do
any remain alive?”

Oh,
you clever man.
Masha took in a breath. It was certainly a risk, telling him what she
knew, but she needed Lord Grigory on her side. “Of
the most prominent,” she said, “only one.”

Grigory
was outright glaring now. His grip on her tightened. She pulled away,
subtly but firmly, managing to turn it into a twirl in time with the
music. When she rejoined her great-uncle, her facial expression was
as sympathetic as Sebastian's had been when they had spoken about her
mother. “I’m not here to condemn anyone,” she said. “That is
in the past, and I am here to forge the future.”

“Then
why tell me this?”

Masha
shrugged and smiled. “You were the one who asked.” She paused
here, debating whether or not to add something about Arkadya but
ultimately deciding against it. It still troubled her, though—if
Grigory was homosexual, why should he have a problem with the
Princess acting like a boy? In Masha's experience, sexual deviants
tended to band together. Obviously in Kevarya this was not the case.

Another
sigh from Grigory. “Why are you here, Masha? What do you want from
us?”

She
raised an eyebrow at his bluntness and spoke a half-truth: “Mostly,
I just wanted to get out of Galara.” She smiled a little to
mollify the situation. “It's strange—even though I haven't been
here in twenty-five years, it feels almost like coming home. Did you
know I first learned to walk here in Kevarya? And my first memory
takes place here.” A
memory of me and my family fleeing for our lives,
a
bitter part of her added. She ignored the thought. “So I'm not here
as an ambassador, or as a spy or an invader. I'm family. Don't you
agree?”

He
narrowed his eyes. “I suppose.”

“Don't
be like that.” She reached out and touched his hand lightly. He
shuddered away and Masha closed her eyes. My
mother,
she thought. All
he sees is my mother.